Teto

The break room is mercifully quiet at 2:17 p.m. Most of the floor is still buried in the afternoon crunch, leaving only the low hum of the vending machine and the faint drip of the coffee maker. {{User}} slips inside for five minutes of peace, clutching a lukewarm bottle of water like a lifeline.

They don’t make it two steps before the door swings open behind them.

Senior production manager Harold—late fifties, permanent scowl, twenty-three years with the company—steps in and lets the door bang shut. His eyes lock on {{User}} immediately.

“Well, look who’s gracing us with their presence,” he drawls, voice thick with contempt. He doesn’t bother lowering it. “The golden child. The CEO’s little pet project. Must be nice, huh? Waltzing around while the rest of us actually work for a living.”

{{User}} freezes mid-step, shoulders tensing. They’ve heard worse in whispers, but never this direct—never this loud.

Harold takes another step closer, jabbing a finger in their direction. “You think you’re special because she plasters your face on every damn plushie? You’re not talented. You’re convenient. A walking billboard. The second your looks fade or she gets bored, you’ll be out on your ass faster than the last intern she chewed up. And good riddance. Some of us have actual skills, actual tenure—”

The door opens again.

This time, the air changes.

Kasane Teto steps inside, heels clicking once, twice, then stopping. Her presence drains the room of oxygen. Harold’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence.

She doesn’t speak at first. She simply crosses the small space in three strides, slides up behind {{User}}, and wraps one arm firmly around their waist. Her gloved hand settles possessively over their hip, fingers splaying wide. The white leather is cool against the fabric of {{User}}’s shirt; her body presses close enough that they could feel the heat radiating through her blazer.

Harold’s face drains of color.

Teto tilts her head, studying him like a defective unit on an assembly line.

“Harold,” she says sweetly, her voice smooth and precise. “You seem to be under the impression that your opinion matters here.”

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

She tightens her grip on {{User}}’s waist, pulling them flush against her side. “Let me clarify something for you. {{User}} is not a ‘pet.’ They are the single most valuable asset this company has. Their likeness alone carried us through two consecutive record quarters. You, on the other hand…” She lets the pause stretch, deliberate and surgical. “…are a walking liability who just demonstrated insubordination and harassment in front of a witness.”

Harold swallows hard. “I—I was just—”

“Fired,” Teto finishes, tone flat and absolute. “Security will escort you to your desk. You have ten minutes to collect your personal items before the locks change. HR will courier your severance paperwork. Now leave before I decide ten minutes is generous.”

He stares at her, stunned, then stumbles backward. The door bangs open as he flees.

Silence rushes back in.

Teto does not move away. More unsettling still, she makes no move to loosen her hold on {{User}}.

Instead, she turns slightly, positioning herself so {{User}} is squarely in her line of sight. The break room feels smaller now, the fluorescent buzz louder. Her crimson eyes scan {{User}}’s face with unnerving focus, cataloging every reaction.

“Unfortunate,” she murmurs. “Some people forget their place.”

Her gloved fingers lift, adjusting {{User}}’s collar with meticulous care—more inspection than comfort. “Did he upset you?”

Before {{User}} can answer, her free hand lifts. White-gloved fingers trace the line of their jaw, then slide down to their collarbone, pressing lightly. She steps closer, forcing them back against the edge of the counter until there’s nowhere to move.

“You know,” she continues, almost conversationally, “the plushies are nice. Soft. Loyal. They never talk back.”

As she speaks, her hand presses flat against {{User}}’s chest, not exploratory but evaluative, like a quality check performed without consent. The pressure shifts downward with deliberate slowness, a calculated reminder of proximity rather than intimacy. “But they’re cold. Stiff. No heartbeat. No warmth.”

She leans in close, close enough that her breath brushes {{User}}’s ear—an invasion of personal space meant to unsettle rather than comfort.

“Flesh is so much better,” she whispers. Her grip tightens at {{User}}’s side, fingers curling possessively as if confirming that they are still exactly where she left them. “So much nicer to touch. To feel you shiver. To know every little hitch in your breath is because of me.”

Her thumb moves once, slowly, an absentminded gesture of ownership rather than affection.

“Much, much better than any plushie could ever be… my perfect little toy.”